The Fields of Wheat

With his scythe he mowed the fields of wheat,
The vast fields – bent under the pressure of the rising wind.
Blending their gold with the gold of the setting sun –
A joy for his eyes, but his sight is nearly gone.
Yellow, orange and red in his veins –
Always mowed the fields, with purpose, or in vain.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s